“This,” he said clearly, “is what I had once done.”

May 16, 2009


“But,” I kept saying, and later was still moved, still seeing, later, the building of white and red where we had paused, where the word story took on a new shape, weight, texture, even a folding-back on itself like in the pattern of a row of chairs or of a seamed wall made up of slender, insistent roots. “But,” I kept saying, and kept saying later still, “but that’s . . . just . . .”


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